


Love Drunk

by Scribomaniac



Series: Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Harry Potter AU, Humor, M/M, More relationships to come, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, bartender!Silver, flint cant hold his liquor, professor!Flint, silverflint, slight PTSD, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-04 22:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10291181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribomaniac/pseuds/Scribomaniac
Summary: Hogwarts AU prompt I got on tumblr that evolved into this beast.Flint is a professor at Hogwarts and frequents The Silver Tongue tavern in Hogsmeade where he meets Silver, the cute and mysterious bartender.





	1. Spyglass

The cold, bitter winter wind whipped at Flint’s ears, turning them an angry red. Normally on such a shitty night as this Flint would huddle up before a fire in his office, wrapped in a thick blanket, with a book in one hand and a glass of Fire Whiskey in the other. He cursed under his breath. He cursed himself, he cursed the weather, and he cursed Randall for catching a cold and calling in Flint’s favor. Randall needed to resupply several ingredients for his next Potions class but had been barred from traveling to Hogsmeade himself by Howell, Hogwart’s Major. And Flint, as Randall reminded him, _owed_  him. So here he was, walking the snow covered path to Hogsmeade to the local apothecary. By the time he passed The Three Broomsticks, which looked terribly inviting with its warm yellow lights, but also terribly loud and full of regular patrons, Flint had used a Hot-Air Charm three times and no longer bothered putting his wand away in his robes because he just kept having to pull it out again not five minutes later.   
  


The apothecary was just about to close when he arrived, but thankfully he caught the owner–a young, black woman with a French accent–on her way out and convinced her to allow him entry. She tapped her foot and frowned at him the entire time he was in the shop, and Flint tried to hurry, but he wasn’t the Potions Master or a Master Herbologist, and didn’t want to get the wrong items. He wouldn’t put it past Randall to make him go back out into this miserable weather a second time. Eventually though, and really it only took him about five minutes, Flint had all the ingredients on his list. He doubled checked, then triple checked, that he had enough of each item and then pulled out the necessary Galleons and paid the French woman. After accepting the payment with a raised eyebrow and a quick “ _hmph_!” She quickly herded him out of her shop and locked the door behind him.   
  


Sighing, flint looked down the dark road in front of him. Pulling his robes closer around his body in an attempt to hold in his natural heat, he decided he didn’t want to make the terribly long trek all the way back to Hogwarts just yet. He thought about going back to the three broom sticks, but then winced when he thought about how crowded and loud the place usually was. Even with this weather, flint knew it’d be packed in the pub. Thankfully it wasn’t the only warm place to get a drink in Hogsmeade–it just happened to be the friendliest. And that hardly mattered to flint who was, in fact, no so very friendly himself. So when he came across the quiet, but still open, tavern The Silver Tongue, flint didn’t hesitate to enter the establishment. The interior was dark and gloomy, but surprisingly dry and warm. There was even a fire burning in a small fireplace in the far back corner. True, it was a blue fire, meant to keep the lighting dim and mysterious for the patrons, but it was still warm and to Flint that’s what mattered most. 

Sliding onto a tall, three legged bar stool, Flint squinted at the chalkboard menu above the kitchen window.  He didn’t recognize any of the drinks on it, but he figured it didn’t matter so long as it warmed him up on the inside. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Flint watched as the bartender cleaned a dark tinted glass with what looked like a grease rag.  The bartender seemed to match the aesthetic of the tavern perfect, Flint thought, as he continued to watch the man.  His hair consisted of a messy mop of dark curls that fell well past his shoulder.  The curls looked wild and almost unmanageable, but the man had pulled strands out of his face and tied them into a small, tight knot at the base of his skull. Due to the dim lighting, Flint couldn’t see much of the man’s face, but he could see the dark beard on the bottom half of his face. He was strong, too.  Flint could tell that by watching his muscles shift and strain against his tight blue shirt.  Licking his lips, the red headed wizard found his throat suddenly dryer than the Sahara desert.

Flint cleared his throat, gaining the bartender’s attention.  The man’s eyes brightened when he looked up and a casual, easy smile slid onto his lips.  He walked over to Flint, his steps a bit uneven, and placed his hands on the bar.  “So,” hie voice was deep and gruff, yet smoother than any Acromantula silk at the same time.  “What can I get for you?”

“Beetle Berry Whiskey and some roasted pork,” Flint grunted out.  It was a close thing, too.  He’d looked into the bartender’s eyes and saw nothing but blue.  The man’s eyes were so blue they went on for days.  They were bluer than the mid-day sky.  Bluer then the sea.  Bluer than even– _no_ , Flint jerked back, banging his knee against the underside of the bar.  The man quirked a brow, no doubt confused by his behavior, but didn’t question it.  He did work in a tavern after all, Flint was sure he’d seen stranger things than a man banging his knee against something hard.  Still though, the red haired professor cursed himself silently.

Waving his wand over the bar top, the bartender silently summoned a plate of steaming hot pork and a glass of whiskey from the kitchen.  “Let me know if you need anything else.”  He smiled, much more politely this time and walked back to his corner to continue cleaning glasses.  

The pork smelled delicious, and looked so amazing that Flint’s mouth began to water.  Picking up his fork and knife, he began cutting the chunk of meat into small, bite sized pieces.  He speared a piece with his fork, and brought it up to his mouth.  Before he could take the ever enticing bit, however, a hand grabbed onto his wrist, stopping him.  “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a small, bald headed, bearded man warned him.  “Silver makes great drinks, but he can’t cook for shit.  Trust me,” the stranger nodded down at the pork.  “You’ll have the runs for days.”

A snort sounded from the corner where the bartender stood, “Muldoon, just because you _one_ time got the shits doesn’t mean I’m a shit cook.”  The bartender–Silver–was looking at them with an exasperated look on his face.  Yet there was a twinkle of fondness in his eyes as he looked at the bearded man to Flint’s right.

“Yeah?”  Muldoon smirked then looked at Flint.  “You see anyone else ordering from the kitchen here, mate?”  Flint’s eyes flickered about the tavern.  Muldoon was right, no one else had ordered any food.  Slowly, he grimaced and pushed the plate of food away.  “Smart one, he is.”  Muldoon laughed, patting the professor on the back in good humor.

Silver rolled his eyes, but mumbled a vanishing spell over the plate nevertheless.  A faint blush bloomed over his tan cheeks and Flint’s stomach felt like it’d taken a dive off the Astronomy tower.  Flint thought that’d be the end of the interaction–that Muldoon would continue laughing and walk away.  Or maybe walk closer to talk with Silver.  What he didn’t expect, however, was to be pulled into a conversation.  “So you work at Hogwarts, eh?”  Muldoon asked before Silver placed a drink in front of him.  “Ah,” he raised the glass at Silver.  “Cheers.”

Silver tossed his cleaning rag over his shoulder, making strands of his hair fly about, and stared at Flint expectantly.  Realizing his safe, quiet tavern was turning into his worst boggart, Flint grunted.  Chuckling, Silver shook his head and closed his eyes.  “God, remember our Hogwarts days?”  He directed the question at Muldoon, and Flint practically sighed with relief, thinking the spot light was off him.  He took a large gulp of his whiskey, planning on quickly finishing it, paying Silver, and heading back out into that shit storm back to the castle.

“Christ, you talk like it was centuries ago, Silver.  We’re not _that_ old.  We’ve barely been out a decade.  So what do you teach–hey, what’s your name again?”  

“He never said it.” Silver said, a muscle twitching in his lips.  The only hint of amusement Flint could find.

“Flint,” he said before taking another long drink.  Just one more gulp and he’d be free.  

Silver hummed and looked the professor before him over.  His tongue flicked out to moisten his bottom lip, his blue eyes slowly trailing from Flint’s head down his torso and back up again.  Staring at his red hair, Silver huffed out a laugh, “How apt.”  Something in Flint shook, and he head to look away from Silver’s piercing blue eyes.  “So Flint,” he posed the question slowly, his voice doing wonders to Flint’s senses.  “What’s it you teach at Hogwarts?”

“History of Magic,” he said slowly.  It wasn’t his favorite subject.  He enjoyed it enough, learning about all the Goblin and Giant Wars, and he loved teaching and trying to make their history enjoyable for the students to learn.  But he’d have preferred Alchemy or Charms.  Those positions were filled, though, and Flint had been desperate when he’d first came to the school–desperate for anything that wouldn’t remind Flint of _him_.  And so when Hornigold offered him the position teaching History of Magic–the most boring subject in all of Hogwarts–Flint had grabbed at the opportunity.  At least it wasn’t Herbology, Flint always reminded himself.  he’d never be able to stomach Herbology after what happened.  

“Huh,” Silver’s voice brought Flint back to the present, his green eyes flicking up to meet his steady blue ones.  “With that frown on your face, I would have pegged you for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.  Need a touch up?”  He asked, pointing to the almost empty glass in Flint’s hand.  Numbly, Flint nodded and his glass magically refilled itself.  

“Nah, that’s that Vane fellow’s position.  You remember him right?”  Muldoon stared at him, stroking his beard.  “Few years older than us?  Gryffindor?  He was a right asshole.”

Flint snorted into his drink, “Still is.”

“Good to know things don’t change with time,” Silver muttered, scratching behind his ear.  “At least we never had to share a house with him.”

Muldoon hummed and nodded his head, “Thank Christ.  I think I’d rather jump from the Gryffindor tower than share a common room with him.”

“What houses were you in then?”  Flint found himself asking.  His cheeks felt hot and his head light.  He was tipsy, but he found he didn’t much mind.  The whiskey was good and Silver was pretty to look at, and prettier to listen to–wait, Flint blinked, wondering if someone could sound pretty.  But then Silver was talking again and all thoughts left him.

“Slytherin for me, Hufflepuff for Muldoon.  How ‘bout yourself?”

“Rav’nclaw,” Flint’s tongue was beginning to feel heavy and like cotton, so he took another swig of his drink.  “Funny,” he said, “You don’t find many bartending purebloods.”

Silver shrugged, a mysterious smile curling onto his lips.  It was sharper than a unicorn’s horn and slyer than a fox’s grin and should have put Flint’s teeth on edge.  Instead, though, it sent a rush of warmth to his belly that had nothing to do with the alcohol.  “Who said I was a pureblood?”

“Fuck, man,” Muldoon groaned, rolling his eyes before leaning across the bar to grab a bottle of some unknown alcohol.  He opened the bottle, not bothering to ask Silver for permission–though he didn’t look too perturbed by the theft–and poured himself and Flint a healthy amount.  Again, without asking for permission.  “Either you are, or you ain’t. And one day, you’re gonna tell me which it is.”

Flint frowned.  This was obviously an old, worn out argument between the two, and he knew he’d most likely never understand it, but something in him wanted to ask Silver what that meant.  He was only tipsy, though, not drunk.  So he kept his mouth firmly shut on the matter.  Instead, he took another drink and blanched.  Whatever Muldoon had served him, it wasn’t whiskey.  And it tasted terrible, like Polyjuice Potion.  The pure stuff, without anyone’s essence..  He grabbed for the bottle that was left on the bar and saw that it was Turnip Wine.  He was never having Turnip Wine again.  He pushed the glass away and it was quickly snatched up by Silver.  He sniffed its contents, grimaced, and vanished it with a wave of his wand.    

“Here,” he placed a new glass in front of Flint and waved his wand over it, filling it up with a clear, slightly illuminating liquid.  “On the house.”

“What is it?”  Flint asked, picking up the glass an sniffing it.  It didn’t smell like anything, but that didn’t mean anything.  It could be poison for all he knew.  Well, not _deadly_ poison.  Flint had training dealing with those in the past.  Well before becoming a teacher.  

“My own original concoction: Spyglass.”

“Be careful with that,” Muldoon warned, his eyes hooded as he refilled his glass with Turnip Wine.  “Stuff’s stronger than the killing curse.”

A new patron took a seat on the other end of the bar, and Silver went to get his order.  Muldoon stayed at Flint’s side, but didn’t try to start another conversation.  He only had eyes and words for the wine in front of him, so it would seem, and he cradled the bottle close to his chest.  Eventually the bald headed man gave up on pouring himself glasses and just began to drink from the bottle.  Flint didn’t mind.  His thoughts were beginning to clear and he could feel his body temperature start to cool off.  It never took long for Flint to get drunk, but it also never took long for him to sober up, either.  Turning on the stool, Flint looked out towards the windows of the tavern.  Sighing, he shook his head.  He’d have to brave the weather sooner of later.  And the sooner he was back in his apartment in the castle, the better.  This place was making him reminisce, making him remember things he’d much rather forget, and so, after making sure he still had all of Randall’s necessary ingredients, Flint stood off the stool and pulled out a handful of Sickles to place on the bar top.  Looking down at the clear liquid Silver had given him, he figured, why the hell now, and shot it down his gullet in one go.  At first, nothing happened.  Flint felt fine, not even a little light headed, and he turned to Muldoon to tell him the drink was not, in fact, worse than the killing curse when his vision blurred and he dropped to the floor. 

One moment, Flint was falling to the floor of The Silver Tongue, and the next he was bolting up in his own bed. Flint’s chest rose and fell almost painfully as he stared around his room with wide eyes.  His body was covered in a light sheen of sweat, probably due to the fact that he was still fully dressed in bed with a fire roaring in his fireplace.  Pressing the heels of his palms into his closed eyes, Flint rubbed away the fog of sleep and sighed, trying to remember how he’d gotten home.  His memory was hazy.  He couldn’t see anything clearly, and Flint wondered if he used his pensive if he’d be able to remember any better.  He remembered Randall, the apothecary … he remembered the tavern.  God, the tavern.  With it’s bartender–Silver.  Silver had given him a drink, yes.  And then … and then.  Flint remembered rough, warm hands grabbing at his waist, a soft, rumbling voice whispering words of security and assurance into his ears, a gleaming, white light, and the feeling of scratchy stubble against his lips.  Pulling his hands away from his eyes, he looked around his room.  Nothing appeared out of order, or missing, so whoever helped him home hadn’t robbed him.  Feeling safe that nothing in the room was amiss, Flint took inventory of himself.  He expected his muscles to feel achy and heavy, for his mouth to feel dry and like sand, and for a head ache to pound mercilessly in his head just behind his eyes.  That’s what happened every other time he’d passed out drunk, so that’s what he expected.  Accepted, even.  What he didn’t expect, was to feel absolutely fine.  Better than fine, in fact.  

Quietly, his words barely above a whisper, he mumbled, “What the fuck happened last night?”


	2. Cutlass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint retraces his steps back to the tavern

Flint's morning was a blur.  His mind felt slow and muddled, but this effect wasn't brought on by a hangover from the night before—another mystery he needed to solve—but because he kept trying to repiece what had happened at the tavern.  He'd tried everything.  He looked up every memory retrieval spell known to man, delved into his penseive and emerged with nothing, he'd even tried hypnotism courtesy of the Divination teacher, Hal Gates.  None of it had amounted to anything, thought, so by the end of his lunch break, Flint had resolved to return to The Silver Tongue Tavern and find out what and for all what had happened last night.  He knew the bartender, Silver, had been involved somehow, so he'd start with him.  

Flint started off his class after lunch, the room full of Fifth year Hufflepuffs, lecturing on the Giant Wars that occurred at the end of the nineteenth century.  The material was dry and boorish, even to Flint.  Normally he'd try to spice it up somehow, making fun anecdotes and mnemonic devices for his students to help them remember the terrible hard names of the Giants and their battles.  Sometimes he'd even use his wand to cast illustrations of them fighting in the air—anything to help keep the student's attention and make time go by faster.  Today, though, he did none of those things.  He hadn't had time to plan his lesson the night before—obviously—and could barely keep his own attention at the material in front of him.  Instead of imagining the Giant King Grifnup, Flint's mind kept drifting away to Hogsmeade.  To the Tavern.  To Silver.  He kept thinking about the way his blue eyes gleamed with barely concealed mischief, how his lips would twitch slightly before a full smile would bloom, how his curls fell past his shoulders in perfect spirals, how his—

“Professor?”  A student's voice snapped Flint's mind back to the present.  “Professor Flint?” The same student called out again.  Flint's eyes sought out the student and locked on William Manderly, also known as ' _Billy Bones_ ' by his friends due to his large and impressive size.  He was a popular boy, both with his peers and amongst the teachers.  He was the Keeper for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, an above average student, and an overall good person who always gave others the benefit of the doubt and second chances.  He reminded Flint a great deal of another Hufflepuff he'd known when Flint himself was a student.  

Shaking his head, lest he fall back into memories of the past, he inquired, “Yes, Mr. Manderly?”

“You,” he stumbled, a blush blooming over his cheeks.  “You were saying, sir?  About the Giant King, ahh—” his brows furrowed and his bit down on his bottom lip, unsure of himself.  “Grinfoop?”

“Grifnup,”  Flint corrected automatically, causing a few chittering laughs throughout the class. Billy blushed some more, but shrugged unapologetically.  “Of course, yes . . . Grifnup.”  Flint had been talking about him, but, staring out at the blank stares of his students, he realized he'd trailed off mid sentence while thinking about Silver. “I'm sorry, class, it seems I've lost interest in today's lesson.  What do you say we end early and try again next week?”  At first, the class didn't move, thinking he was joking, or pulling their leg.  “Well go on then,” he barked, starling them.  “Enjoy the rest of the bloody day.”

Not waiting around another moment, most students quickly gathered up their parchments, quills, and books and all but sprinted from the classroom.  Rubbing a hand down his brow, Flint sighed heavily and waited with closed eyes for the slower students to leave.  “Professor Flint?”  A small, timid voice inquired.  Flint knew that voice.  He'd practically helped raise the person the voice belonged to.  Back muscles stiffening, Flint held back a groan before removing his hand from his face and opening his eyes.  “Ms. Ashe,” he responded.  

Abigail Ashe stood before him, while Billy waited for her by the door.  She fiddled with her fingers nervously and chewed on the inside of her cheek.  Abigail used to be one of his favorite students.  He'd known her since she was born, having been close friends with her father, Peter, since they were students together.  Then the Second Wizarding War happened, and Peter was revealed to be a Death Eater—a traitor—and Flint had to stop his train of through there.  It was going full steam ahead towards something he worked very hard to keep locked up.  Flint didn't hate Abigail for what her father was—for what he _did_ —but he still couldn't look at her without feeling the demon that lived deep within himself rear its ugly head and try to escape in a storm of rage and grief.  His mouth was dry, but he tried to swallow anyway. “Do you need something?”

 

* * *

 

 

“I, um, are—are you all right, professor?  It's just you seemed . . . distracted.  Before.”  Flint sighed.  She really was just a sweet girl.  He knew some of her classmates still gave her troubles for having a Death Eater for a father.  Flint also knew that Billy had taken it upon himself to act as her protector.  She didn't need any more grief and Billy didn't need a teacher as an enemy.  

“I'm fine, Abigail,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough for her to hear.  “Just tired.  Now go on, you don't have to worry about an old, crotchety man like me.” He was even able to form a smile for her.  It was brittle and thin lipped, but a smile none the less.

Nodding slowly, Abigail stared at him with wide eyes as she determined whether or not he was telling the truth.  “All right,” she said, then pursued her lips and nodded again.  “Get some sleep, professor.”  Flint snorted, but nodded and assured her he would.  Finally she scurried over to Billy and the two of them exited the room, leaving him alone in the classroom. Flint sighed with relief before stroking his beard pensively.  He needed to focus if he was to finish out the school day with any semblance of respect.  

Deciding to stretch his legs, Flint walked out of his office and ambled aimlessly through the castle.  His next lesson wasn't for over an hour, so he had plenty of time to wander and sort himself out before then.  The cold air, which was still bitter and bone chilling, though no longer as windy as the previous night, caused Flint to walk quickly and with purpose through the halls.  It made him look like a bat out of hell, he knew, but it also got his blood pumping and kept him warm in the drafty halls. The walk was doing wonders for Flint's mind.  It felt clearer and he felt more present, more grounded in the moment than it had just a half hour ago.  No longer were his thoughts drifting back to the previous night or the bright eyed bartender.  He appreciated the clarity in his mind, reveled in it, even.  However, he was so focused on himself that Flint hadn't where exactly his walk had taken him.  

“Well, well,” a deep voice rasped from Flint's left.  The voice was rough, like a cat's tongue on your skin.  It made Flint's teeth grind with annoyance and irritation. Turning his head, Flint looked at the owner of the voice.  Charles Vane: Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Gryffindor, and eternal pain in Flint's ass.  “What do we have here?”  Vane's lips twitched with a smile.  Quirking a brow, the long haired man asked, “Shouldn't you be boring students to death about the Goblin Rebellion right now?”

“Giant Wars,”  Flint responded automatically, but hid his wince.  He'd never let Vane know that he dismissed his class early.  Vane did such things all the time, which Flint constantly berated him for.  If Vane found out he—one time, just this one time—released his students early, Vane would never let him hear the end of it.  “What are you doing loitering in the hall?”  It was only after the question left his mouth did Vane notice the two students flanking him.  Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny. He should've known they were nearby.  And he definitely should have noticed they'd been standing right behind Vane.  Trying to save face, Flint added hastily, “Passing off your bad habits to the next generation?”

“Hardly,”  Vane snorted, not at all impressed with Flint's accusation.  “Rackham here wanted clarification on nonverbal spells.  He can't get a handle on the concept.”

“Well, professor,” Jack's slow words and pinched facial expression were enough proof for Flint. Rackham was a proud Ravenclaw and cherished his intelligence and wit above all else.  He always felt the need to prove himself to his peers and professors, and the best way he knew to do that was by receiving top marks in all his classes.  However, he was also known for never knowing when to shut up—something that was essential for nonverbal spells.  “If you would be so kind as to explain the _idea_ of nonverbal spells to me again.  I'm afraid I just don't understand their purpose when I can perform the spell perfectly without giving myself an aneurysm.”

“Advantage,” Flint found himself explaining, even though his subject was History of Magic and the question was aimed at Vane.  Figuring he was too far invested all ready, he continued, “Your adversary would have no idea what spell was coming their way if performed non-verbally.  In a fight it can mean the difference between life and death.”

“And it's the reason why Bonny here keeps kicking your ass in Dueling club,” Vane added with a sly grin cutting across his face.  He stared at Anne, waiting to see if she rose to the bait.  She didn't.  Anne was a person of few words.  She preferred action.  And so she merely continued to glower at her Defense professor.  Though, for Anne, that particular facial expression was the norm.  Flint could still remember when she'd walked through the Great Hall seven years ago, her small frame swamped beneath second hand robes and a large, over sized witch's hat atop her head.  The only features you could see of the girl was her long, flaming red hair.  Then, when she'd been called up to be sorted and had to take her own hat off, her face was revealed and the same scowl on her face now was the same as it was all those years ago. Jack was the only soul brave enough to approach her, and, Flint had heard, he was also the only person able to morph that scowl into a genuine smile.  Even thought they were in different Houses, the two were inseparable.  Never could you find one without finding the other at their side.  

Anne's scowl wasn't just an unfortunate resting face, either.  She genuinely did not like other people, and never tried to hide that fact.  As far as Flint knew, Jack was the only human in the world Anne actually liked and tolerated.  Vane was someone she put up with—mostly because Jack was enamored with him—but would not hesitate to stab him in the eye with her wand if provoked.  Flint assumed he was in the same category as Vane, but he could never say for certain.  It was tough to get Anne to like you.  But once she did, you were as good as gold and no one could touch you.  If she didn't like you, on the other hand . . . In her first year, a fifth year student had, allegedly, attempted to force Jack's head town a toilet so he could give Moaning Myrtle a kiss, and Anne had, allegedly, attacked the older student with the killing curse.  Since Anne was so young and so new to magic, even if she _had_ cast the killing curse—which was still debated to this day—it wasn't strong enough to finish the job.  However, killing curse aside, Anne had taken the older boy down with just her tiny, bony fists and sharp teeth and had sent him to the infirmary a bloody, pathetic mess.  People called her many things after the attack—mad, courageous, psychotic, daring—but mostly, they called her a Gryffindor.  The incident had left Anne with a month's worth of detention, and it was there she met Vane.  Which was how Vane met Jack.  Vane took the two of them under his wing, personally tutoring and advising them throughout their seven years here at Hogwarts.  

“Fuck you lookin' at?”  Anne sneered at him, her lips barely moving enough to form the words. Flint heard them all the same.  Blinking, he hadn't realized he'd been staring at all.  Jack and Vane stopped their conversation—as most did whenever Anne spoke, since it was so seldom an occurrence—to look between the two red heads.  

Nostrils flaring, Flint declared, “Fifty points from Gryffindor, Ms. Bonny, for using such foul language while addressing a teacher.”  Looking at Vane, the two professors glared at each other until the Defense professor nodded his head and Flint turned away to continue his walk down the drafty hallway.  Once he was out of earshot, Flint groaned and silently cursed himself for what felt like the tenth time that day.  He needed to get himself in order, and fast.  Heading back towards his classroom, though making sure to take a different route so as to not run into Vane and his underlings again, Flint began reviewing his next lecture in his head.  His next class were Third Year Gryffindors, and they'd be learning about the Witch Hunts of Salem in the seventeenth century.  It was a rough subject—though most of those killed weren't even Witches—so Flint spent his remaining time inventing new and creative ways to educate his students.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, around three in the afternoon, Flint properly released his final class and began to pack up his papers, reference books, and quills.  He headed towards his apartment, which wasn't too far from his classroom, to deposit the items in his study and decompress from the day.  Normally, when he arrived home Flint would immediately shed himself of his professional, smart clothes and throw on something much comfier like a jumper and slacks.  After, he'd pour himself some firewhiskey or some Red Currant Rum if he had any on hand, and prepare a future lesson plan.  Then, once all his work was out of the way, he'd either go down to the Great Hall for dinner, or summon a House Elf and order something straight from the kitchen.  Usually it'd be the latter. Today, though, Flint found himself at a crossroads.  He could either follow his usual routine and be in bed by nine, or he could head to Hogsmeade for some answers.  Looking out the window out towards the darkening day, watching as bare tree branches blew wildly in the wind, Flint made his decision. Grabbing his cloak and bundling up to the nines, Flint efficiently made his way out of the castle and towards the beaten path that led to Hogsmeade.  

Flint didn't know what deity he had to thank for timing his trip so he didn't run into any other professor on their way home, so he thanked them all.  In the end it became a bit of a game, a distraction from the cold, to think of and name every deity known to man.  He started with the Celtic gods first, then Norse, followed by Greek, Babylonian, Egyptian—he had just started on some of the more modern deities when he passed the Three Broomsticks and finally ran into a familiar face.  Thankfully, again to the gods, this was a face Flint didn't mind encountering.  

“Eleanor,” he greeted with raised eyebrows.  The blonde woman had just exited the pub and turned to face him, her expression mirroring his own.  Eleanor Guthrie had been in her fifth year at Hogwarts when Flint took up the position as History of Magic professor and with her quick wit and sharp tongue, she had quickly become one of his favorite pupils.  Flint saw a great deal of himself in Eleanor.  She was strong willed to the point of stubbornness, always knew what needed to be done and never flinched at doing just that, and self destructing.  Her past relationship with Vane was proof enough of that.  Eleanor never had many friends while at Hogwarts—her family, the Guthrie's, came from a long line of Slytherins and many felt she should have been sorted similarly due to her ambitious nature and resourcefulness when pushed back into a corner, but Flint always thought that hat had it right.  Gryffindors came in all different sorts, and Eleanor's bravery knew no bounds. The woman was never one to back down from a challenge, even if it wasn't in her best interest.  

The other Gryffindors in her year didn't feel the same, unfortunately, and given Eleanor's hot hotheadedness and wicked tongue, it made it hard for her to make many friends amongst her peers.  Amongst her professors, however, was an entirely different matter.  Eleanor was a different breed.  She hadn't been coddled or protected as a child, and was therefore leagues ahead of people her age in terms of maturity and jadedness. So whereas that made it difficult for her to connect with her classmates, it made it all too easy for her to bond with the professors.  In her seventh year, though, it was revealed that Vane and she had bonded a bit _too_ closely.  Flint thought Vane would've been sacked immediately, but since the affair hadn't been discovered until she was seventeen, a legal adult in the Wizarding world, and neither participant were confessing that the relationship had been going on prior to that, there technically wasn't anything illegal about it.  In regards to the school, however, it was still considered to be a terrible scandal and so Edward Teach, the Headmaster at the time, had fallen on his sword and retired to ensure his prodigal son wouldn't lose his position.  

“How are you?”  He asked.  It felt tired and generic, even to his ears, but the question had been automatic.  Almost like a reflex.  Pursuing his lips, he tried to be more specific, “How's your shop in Diagon Alley?”  

“Shop's fine,” She answered shortly.  Her small nose was turning red and Flint realized she wasn't wearing anything heavier than a jumper.  She didn't seem to mind the cold, though, because she continued on like she wasn't freezing, “Father's still fucking me over in the grave, but I've got it sorted.  Fucking finally,” she muttered the last part under her breath and just barely caught herself from rolling her eyes. Folding her arms over her chest—the only sign she'd give to her feeling the chill—she tilted her head and cocked a brow, “What're you doing in Hogsmeade on a Thursday?  Don't you usually save trips here for the weekends?”

Flint's face slacked, his mouth slowly opening and her chest breathing in a deep breath, as if he were about to answer her question.  The only problem was that he didn't have one.  Well, he could tell her the truth.  Or the semblance of it—he was going to a tavern—but that was dangerous.  She might then ask why go to the tavern all the way at the end of the lane and not Three Broomsticks which was so much cleaner and closer.   _Or_ , she might invite herself along.  There was too much risk in the truth. So instead he lied, “I owe old Randall a favor.  I'm picking up some ingredients from the Apothecary down the way.”

“The one owned by Max?”  Eleanor's eyes glazed over as she stared down the road that led to both the Apothecary and the tavern.  

Frowning, Flint tried to remember the shop owner's name, but could really only remember her glaring face and tapping foot.  “Is that her name?  I didn't catch it last time.”  Flint bit his tongue, realizing he'd almost caught himself in his own lie.  Hopefully Eleanor hadn't noticed.  

The blonde woman's face had turned a dark scarlet, and this time the flush had nothing to do with the cold.  “No?  Oh, well then . . .” she looked down at her feet and seemed to gather herself.  Looking up, she patted Flint on his arm and said, “Well, it was lovely running into you, professor, but I've got some business to take care of inside.”

“Right, well I won't keep you, then.”  He nodded his goodbye and started again for the tavern. That was too close for his liking.  If Eleanor had pushed in just the right places, she might have found him out.  He tried not to walk away from her too quickly—too suspiciously, but it was hard when he felt the instinctive need to put as much space between himself and his ex student as quickly as possible.

Soon enough the Silver Tongue Tavern came into view and Flint hurried his last few steps until he was past the threshold and once again standing inside the dimly lit but terribly warm pub.  It was almost completely empty, save for a handful of lonely patrons drinking away their problems.  Silver was no where to be seen, but Flint figured he couldn't be too far and so he silently found a seat at the bar and settled in.  The door to the kitchen behind the bar swung open and Flint's head snapped up, his heart jumping to his throat and his breath catching as he waited for Silver to appear.  Except . . . except the man was not Silver, and as high his heart jumped, it soon plummeted down to the depths of his stomach with disappointment.  Regaining his breath, Flint couldn't help but ask, “Where's Silver?”  It was a rude question, and highly presumptuous of him, but flint didn't care.  He just wanted to know.

The man behind the bar, a brown skinned, native man with long black hair, quirked a brow at Flint's question but just shook his head.  “He doesn't work Thursdays.” Of course he didn't, Flint thought as he cursed himself over a thousand times.  “Drink?”  The new bartender asked.  Fling hummed and ordered some brandy.  If he was already he, he might as well drink.  The brandy was good and warmed Flint front the inside out. It was strong, too.  Made him light headed and he felt weightless. Flint didn't know what they put in their drinks here to make them so good, but soon enough he himself was feeling good.  And, wanting to continue feeling good, he ordered another drink.  Then another.  Then another.  And soon enough Flint was well and truly drunk.  

“I mean, who _does_ tha'?  You know?  What _self resp'ctin_ ' teach'r has a rela'ship with a student?”  Flint slurred speech was high pitched and lilting at the end, emphasizing his confusion and outcry at the prospect.  His hands were gesturing about wildly, and he refused to put down his seventh—or was it ninth?—glass of brandy which led to him spilling it about all over tha bar and his robes.  “It's like—it's like wi' me and Th'mas and M'randa we were all the same—the same age!  But with Vane and El'nor—he's, he's _twice_ her age and—” A hand firmly, but gently, too, grabbed Flint's wrist and stopped the continuous spillage of alcohol by prying the almost empty glass out of his fingers.  Flint's eyes snapped to the hand around his wrist, watched as the glass was taken from him, and then up the arm the hand belonged to until he was looking into the blue eyes of Silver.  Except this time they weren't so very blue, as his pupils were full and eclipsing the iris'.  “S'you!”  Flint hiccuped with surprise.  Twisting around on his bar stool he pointed to the other bartender and glared, “You said Sil—Sil—S'lver did'n work Th'rsdays.”

“I don't,”  Silver answered slowly.  His eyebrows were reaching for his brow, but he hadn't let go of Flint's wrist.  “Joji told you the truth.  I'm just stopping in—good thing, too.  You look like shit.”

“Mmm,”  Flint hummed and leaned in closer to rest his forehead against Silver's chest and took a deep breath.  “I have quest—quest—quest—I have th'ngs to ask you.” Craning his neck, he looked up at Silver and whined, “But I can't re'mem'er what.”

Silver huffed a laugh, “I'm not surprised.”  He ran his fingers through Flint's hair soothingly and Flint leaned into the touch and practically purred.  “Who're Thomas and Miranda?”

Snapping away from Silver fully, Flint stared at Silver in horror.  “Who told you 'bout them?”  he asked, looking almost completely sober in that moment that it made both bartenders blink.  

“You did,” Silver said slowly. “You mentioned them a moment ago.”  Silver stepped away—again, with a slight limp—and made his way behind the bar, shooing Joji away as he did so.  “Were they—”

“They're dead.”  Flint answered abruptly.  He wasn't looking at anything now, just staring straight down at the wooden bar in front of him.  His fingers deftly ran across the shiny, smooth edge of the wood back and forth.  “They're fucking _dead_.  And I'm not.”  His breath caught and his shoulders caved.  His eyes burned with oncoming tears, but even drunk Flint knew better than to unleash them.

“I'm sorry,”  Silver acknowledged and the way he said it, like he actually _meant_ it, had Flint's eyes flickering up to look at him beneath his lashes for a moment. Silver didn't say anything more for a few moments, and instead placed a glass of water in front of Flint, pushing it closer when it seemed the red head would only ignore its presence.  “What were they like?”

And so he told him.  Flint told him of Miranda, who he'd met first since they were both sorted into the same house at Hogwarts.  He told Silver about her quiet humor and endless patience, how she was responsible for getting both him and Thomas out of trouble more times than he could count.  Flint retold stories of how Miranda would cut class to walk down to the lake and study the Giant Squid.  She always made sure she had enough scraps of toast with her to entice it as well as thank it for its cooperation.  How she one time tried to sneak into the Slytherin Common Room so she could try and see a Merperson and communicate with them.  She was euphoric to be around, yet grounding at the same time.  She was an anchor to Flint.  A place he could always return.  A home.  Miranda was Flint's first love.

Then there was Thomas.  Sweet, sweet, innocent and naive Thomas.  Flint spoke of his optimism, always ever growing.  His beliefs were what made Thomas, Thomas.  If he believed in you, you felt like you could touch the stars.  His dedication to people, to his ideals, never faltering and never wavering.  Flint met him through Miranda.  The two had been friends since birth, and Thomas being sorted into Hufflepuff wasn't going to stop that.  The three of them soon became inseparable.  Flint and Miranda would even sneak Thomas into their House to spend the night.  Thomas was what everyone strived to be, Flint told Silver.  Thomas was a comet that visited only once every hundred years.  Bright and wonderful, but brief and bittersweet.  Thomas Hamilton was a lot of things to James Flint, but first and foremost he was Flint's truest love.  

He told Silver how, when they finished school they bought a flat together in London.  Flint soon became and Auror.  Miranda traveled the world as a curse breaker for Gringotts, but always made it home for dinner.  And Thomas followed his father's footsteps by accepting a job within the Ministry.  It was then that Flint's voice grew soft and solemn once again.  He trailed off, his hands wrapped around the empty glass of water before him.  He stared at its lack of contents and wondered when he'd drunk it all.  Then, as Silver raised his wand and magically refilled the glass, he wondered how many glasses of water he'd drunk while he wasn't paying attention.  

“They sound like wonderful people.” Silver said, stroking his beard while leaning back against the wall behind the bar.  Flint grunted.  That was an understatement.  Silver pushed off the wall and crowded Flint's personal space at the bar. “And wonderful people like them wouldn't want their friend wallowing in his misery, drinking all alone, wishing he were dead along with them.”

Flint's hand, which had been propping up his cheek, dropped to the bar with a hollow smack.  He sneered at Silver, his lips pulling back away from his teeth menacingly.  “What the f'ck d'you know?”

Leaning in, Silver whispered, as if making a confession, “More than you'd think.”  

Silver began to pull back, but Flint's hand snaked up to grab the collar of Silver's robes and pulled him back down to they were eye to eye.  “Is that so?”  Flint asked, his hot breath wafting against Silver's skin.  They were so close, Flint thought.  So close, he could see the faintest splattering of freckles across the bridge of Silver's nose.  

Narrowing his eyes, Silver wrapped his fingers around Flint's wrist.  Slowly, as if he were approaching a wild animal, Silver slid his hand up to the fingers that held his collar tightly and gently pried himself free.  Smirking, and not breaking eye contact, Silver clasped their hand together and hummed. “It is so.  For instance, I know it's time for you to go home.”

“You're cutt'ng me off?”

Silver laughed and Flint's eyes fluttered closed as his senses were overcome by the sound and the _feel_ of that laugh.  Slowly, the opened again just as Silver answered, “Flint, I cut you off three hours ago.  Now come on,” keeping his hold on Flint's hand, Silver walked around the bar and helped him stand, “let's get you to bed.”

It was slow goings back to the castle. Flint, though properly hydrated thanks to Silver, was still inebriated beyond belief and could barely stand on two legs much less walk.  It was times like these that made Flint want to curse the anti-apparating spell around the castle.  If it weren't for that he'd already be home and in bed.  Then again, he thought as he felt Silver tighten his arm around Flint's waist and as he got a whiff of Silver's hair, maybe the long walk wasn't such a bad thing after all. Eventually they made it back to the castle and up to Flint's apartment.  Propping Flint up against the wall, Silver began riffling through the red headed man's pockets for his keys.  Snorting, Flint looked down at Silver through half lidded eyes and grinned mischievously.  Running his hands up the length of the dark haired man's back, he then played with the ends of his curls.  Wrapping them around his fingers and watching them spring back.  “Beautiful,” he whispered reverently.

Snapping up, Silver looked into Flint's easy warily.  The keys were in his hands now and, after making sure Flint wouldn't fall over any time soon, he unlocked the door and walked Flint to his bed room.  Pressing his nose into Silver's hair, Flint groaned, “God, you smell so good, Silver.” Silver merely hummed and continued to lead the way.  When they reached his bed room, Silver began to efficiently remove Flint of his outer clothes.  “Oh,” Flint's eyes brightened and his chuckled. “I was hop'ng this was what you meant when you said you were tak—tak'ng me to bed.”  Flint wrapped his arms around Silver's neck and pressed sloppy, hot, open mouthed kisses on the other man's cheeks.  His lips brushed against the scruff of his beard in the most delicious way and he nipped at Silver's chin.  Before he could wrap his fingers into Silver's thick curls—before he could yank and make Silver bare that delicate neck of his, make it vulnerable to his lips, his tongue, his _teeth—_ Silver stepped out of reach and pushed Flint down back onto the mattress.  

Staring up at Silver from where he laid on the bed, Flint licked his lips—they were suddenly so, so dry and he knew the only relief was Silver.  His skin.  His lips. His tongue.  Silver—and blinked.  It was harder to open his eyes than it had been a moment ago.  And his pillow felt so soft.  His muscles relaxed and his breathing deepened, but still Flint fought off sleep.  He tried to keep his eyes open.  He tried to keep his gaze locked with Silver who was still staring down at him. “Beautiful,” he whispered again.  

Silver shook his head and chuckled, walking over to the side of the bed so he could run his fingers through Flint's red hair.  The professor hummed contentedly and felt his eyes close again.  This time they stayed closed.  “Finally,” Silver breathed, but his tone was light.  “This was easier than last time,” he joked, though Flint was too far gone to respond appropriately.  Brushing his thumb across Flint's brow, Silver murmured, “Good night, Flint.”  It was silent, and Flint was sure Silver had disappeared, but then he heard his voice say, so softly Flint had to strain to hear it, “Beautiful.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, when the sunlight peered into Flint's room and blinding him into wakefulness, he blinked and stared up at the ceiling.  Then, sitting up slowly, though his muscles weren't sore and his hangover was nonexistent, the professor looked down at his hands blankly.  This time, when he tried to recall the previous night's events, he had no issue doing so.  He remembered everything.  He remembered getting drunk on brandy.  He remembered bitching to the bartender—Joji.  He remembered Silver showing up and then pouring his heart out to the man.  Telling him about Miranda.  About Thomas.  About their lives together.  And he remembered Silver comforting him—or trying to, at least.  Flint dragged his hands down his face, slightly pulling at the puffy skin below his eyes, and groaned, “Shit.”                                  

                     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm thinking this is now at least a 3 part series. Let me know what you thought by leaving a comment!
> 
> Also, I am very pleased with my eleanor/anne portions of the chapter :) I like them very much in this AU. Or at least I really like figuring their back stories within this au


	3. Flintlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint gets drunk (again), Silver learns a bit more of Flint's past, and the two share a brief, tender moment.

Flint finished off his glass of beetle berry whiskey in one large gulp.  His vision was blurred and his cheeks felt like they were on fire, but he motioned for Silver to bring him another.  He’d lost count of how many drinks he’d had already.  He knew he’d had more than six but less than twelve, but he hardly cared.  The warm, fluttery feeling pulsating through his body made the amount of alcohol he was consuming worth it.  A dirty glass of water was placed in front of him with a booming thud as it made contact with the wooden bar.  Flint frowned and set his fuzzy gaze on the hand attached to the glass, up the arm attached to the hand, all the way past the wide shoulders, along the curved neck, up to the blue, blue eyes that made Flint’s world sharpen and focused once again.  

“Did'n ask f'r wat'r,” he mumbled, but took the glass from Silver anyway.  Silver didn’t say anything, merely hummed as he watched Flint take several long gulps before placing the now empty glass on the bar.  Magically, the glass refilled itself, and with a gentle prod from Silver, Flint was draining it again.  The two wizards played this game twice more before Silver was appeased and finally placed another glass of whiskey before the red headed professor.  

“Fuck'n f'n'lly.”

Silver chuckled, “You’ll thank me in the morning.  I can’t imagine it’d be much fun lecturing students all day with a hangover.”  He paused, crossing his arms over his chest and drawing Flint’s gaze to the thick muscles there.  “Then again, considering the subject, a hangover might be preferable.”

“Little shit,” Flint said into his glass.

“Funny how you’re able to properly enunciate that particular insult,” Silver grinned and shook his head.  Leaning over and bracing his forearms against the bar, Silver tilted his head and asked, “How do you figure that?”

Flint didn’t pay his words any mind, though, because Silver’s dark curls had fallen over his shoulders and immediately caught his attention.  They were so close, within touching distance.  Flint’s fingers itched to reach out and run his fingers down the dark tresses, curling them around his fingers and letting them spring away.  The urge was overwhelming and the Hogwarts professor found himself leaning closer to the bartender.  Flint could feel the hot breath of the other man fanning against his skin and licked his lips.  Silver’s pupils dilated, the black obliterating any trace of blue, and his breath hitched.  He was so close, and for a moment, Flint could have sworn he was inching closer.  They were a hair’s breadth away, and Flint’s eyes flickered down to Silver’s lips, wondering idly how the other man’s dark beard would feel against his skin.  His eyes closed in anticipation of their lips meeting, and with a tilt of his head, Flint surged forward to close the gap between them.

His lips met with nothing but cold air, and if it weren’t for a warm, strong hand pushing against his shoulder, Flint would have smacked his face against the hard wooden bar.  Eyes snapping open, he glared up at Silver who now stood a good foot away from the red head.  Silver’s cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were still dark with want, but his brow was furrowed and his jaw was clenched.  Flint knew that look—that stubborn glint in his gaze.  He hated it.  Pulling away abruptly, swaying atop his bar stool, Flint angrily finished the rest of his whiskey and pulled out a handful of Sickles and stumbled to his feet.  Two months had passed since Flint discovered The Silver Tongue.  Two months of Flint drinking heavily in public.  Two months of looking into Silver’s deep blue eyes.  Two months of Silver looking back.  And two months of nothing happening.  It was infuriating.

“I think it’s time we get you home.  Joji,” he called over to the other bar tender and they exchanged a nod and a silent conversation.  “Come on, professor.”  

Silver wrapped and arm around Flint’s waist to help keep him steady, but Flint shook him off with a growl. “M'not a child.”

Silver sighed, but for once held his tongue.  He’d seen Flint like this many times before, and after two months of night’s such as this, Silver had become very adept as handling a angry, drunken Flint.  They walked out of the pub, side by side, and set out for the castle.  The weather had only gotten colder and the winds had only gotten more bitter in the past two months since Flint had first made the trek out to Hogsmeade, but in his inebriated state he hardly noticed it. Glancing at Silver out of the corner of his eye, the professor also trusted Silver to keep the both of them warm until Flint was asleep back in his bed.  This was another thing that had been happening the past two months.  Flint would drink until he could barely stand and, usually after making a pass at Silver, the bartender would cut him off and escort him all the way back to Hogwarts.  At first it had confused the red headed man, but now it just made his blood boil.  

Flint realized quickly that he wasn’t as intoxicated as he normally was this time of night when he began noticing the details of their surroundings. Usually all his attention would be on walking, or on Silver who’d be helping him walk.  But this night, this night he noticed the small houses and shops on either side of the road and with a sinking dread in his stomach, he also realized that he recognized them.  Steps slowing, Flint swallowed hard as he looked at a small cottage home to his right.  There were no lights shining from inside, and the small garden that had been so lovingly planted and grown had been overgrown with dried up weeds.  The home was obviously abandoned and Flint had to wonder, as he stopped to stand before it, if anyone besides him knew why.  

“Flint?” Silver called from a few feet away, having just noticed the other man was no longer beside him.  Walking back over to his side, Silver wrapped a hand around Flint’s elbow and asked, “What is it?”

Flint licked his lips and swallowed painfully.  His mouth was dry, but his tongue was loose as he whispered, “This is where she died.  Where Ashe killed her.  He was our friend … and he killed her.”  The grip on his arm tightened, and Flint continued without prompting, “That damn, son of a bitch Death Eater,” his upper lip curled back as he barred his teeth at the memory.  “I should have been there.”  His shoulders slumped suddenly, the anger bleeding out of him as guilt took its place.  Flint wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol in his system making him confess so much with Silver by his side, or if it was the fact that he hadn’t been back here since the Death Eater’s raid on the small town several years ago, or if it was something else entirely.  “I should have been there to protect her, but I wasn’t,” his brow furrowed and a sob caught in his throat.  “I wasn’t there for her.  I should have been there for her.  I made a promise—a promise to Thomas that I’d always—that I’d always—”

Flint felt Silver step closer, felt the hand holding onto his arm move away to rub up and down along Flint’s spine soothingly.  “I don’t know what to say,” he whispered.  He was standing so close now that Flint could feel his warm breath against his chilled ear.  “I’m sorry,” he decided on.  Flint couldn’t look away, though.  Not from the house, and not from the memories that it held.  If he closed his eyes he could still hear Miranda’s laughter, still feel Thomas’s solid form snuggled into his side.  His heart ached with it, and he wished with all his heart that he could go back and save them.  If only those time turners at the Ministry hadn’t been destroyed, he thought damningly.  If it weren’t for Silver, Flint wasn’t sure he’d ever move again, but after a few more minutes of wallowing in his grief, the bartender wrapped and arm around his shoulders and steered him away from the desolate cottage.

The rest of their walk back to Hogwarts was silent, which Flint appreciated.  Silver could talk a man’s ear off, but he also knew when to keep his big mouth firmly shut.  The dark haired man also kept his arm firmly around Flint’s shoulders as she led him through the castle grounds, up several flights of winding stairs, and towards his apartment, which was another thing Flint was grateful for.  The dark hole of loneliness and despair had opened up inside him, egged on by the residual alcohol in his blood stream, and the professor felt like Silver was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.  

Once they entered Flint’s apartment—Silver had become quite skilled in finding the proper key and opening the door while handling the owner—Silver quickly got to work by rekindling the almost dead fire, placing three glasses of water on the night stand next to Flint’s bed, closing the blinds for the morning, and helping Flint out of his day clothes and into his night ones.  Usually by now Flint would be all over him, encouraging him to strip bare himself.  Tonight, though, he just stood there—only stumbling and loosing balance slightly—and watched Silver through heavy lidded eyes.  

When Silver had finished his preparations, he gently pushed Flint down on the bed, his hands on the other man’s shoulders.  Flint sat down easily, but when Silver began to step away, Flint reached out and captured his wrists.  Looking up at him, Flint’s lips quivered, “Stay,” he requested, his grip on Silver’s wrists tightening slightly.  The muscle along Silver’s jaw throbbed, and Flint could see the battle warring behind the man’s ever darkening eyes.  “Please,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.  “Please stay.”

Sighing deeply, Silver set his jaw and furrowed his brow.  Then, leaning in and touching his forehead to Flint’s he closed his eyes and breathe in deeply.  Flint’s heart fluttered almost painfully in his chest and he stretched up, trying to get closer to the man.  Silver sighed again and muttered something under his breath, too softly for Flint to hear before pulling away.  “Get some sleep, professor,” he said, his mind made up.  Leaning back down, he pressed a chaste kiss to Flint’s forehead, before breaking his wrists free from Flint’s grip and pressing the older man into the mattress.  Flint frowned, but his mind had turned fuzzy again with the promise of sleep and his eyelids had grown heavy.  One second his eyes were open and Silver was looking down at him, a soft smile on his lips, then he blinked.  When he opened his eyes again, he was alone in his room and the wave of loneliness hit him like a tsunami before the firm grasp of sleep grabbed hold of his mind and pulled him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there’s officially going to be two more chapters for this fic, making it a 5 piece fic. Originally this chapter was going to be longer, but I think I’m fighting off a writing block bug right now so I just wanted to make sure I got something out.


	4. Jack Speak

Flint walked down the corridor leading to the Headmaster's office at a brisk pace. Headmaster Hornigold had sent for him just a few moments ago, beckoning him to his office. Flint didn't know what the older man wanted, but he rarely called upon his Deputy Headmaster, so he knew it had to be important. Or so he hoped. He did so hate it when people wasted his time. When he reached the stone gargoyle, he quickly said the password, “Royal Lion,” and ascended the spiral stair case. Opening the door without bothering to knock, Flint's brows furrowed at the sight before him and his lips twisted into a scowl. “What's he doing here?”

Silver—bloody Silver—was sitting in front of Hornigold's desk, looking as calm and comfortable as anyone could be. His long, curly hair was hanging loose around his shoulders and he wore a navy shirt that stretched tight across his chest and the neckline was cut into a deep V that showed off his many necklaces and some chest hair. Flint gulped. He tried to find a reason for Silver's presence, but the only thing he could come up with was that Hornigold had found out about his drinking problem at the _Silver Tongue_ and had brought Silver into testify how righteously pissed he got every night.

“Professor Flint, you know Mr. Silver then?” Hornigold asked as he rifled through his desk. “Blast it, where's my inkwell?”

“We've met,” Flint said slowly, not taking his eyes off of Silver. The man was leaned far back in his chair with one leg extended outwards like he was resting it. “You called for me, Headmaster?”

“Ah, yes,” Hornigold nodded while continuing to search for his missing inkwell. “I'm sure you've heard, but poor Professor Randall's health has taken a turn for the worst and will no longer be able to teach his Potions classes. I asked Mr. Silver here to fill the position and he's agreed to an interview. Ah, there it is!” He pulled out a small jar coated in dried black ink. “Drat,” the white haired man murmured. “it's empty. Professor Flint, would you mind starting the interview while I fetch a new one?”

Flint itched to say _yes_. _Yes he did mind_. He never thought he'd see John Silver anywhere outside of Hogsmeade, or even the _Silver Tongue_ for that matter. He didn't want to see him anywhere else. Silver was a symbol of every one of Flint's weaknesses. Silver knew more than anyone about the red haired man than anyone else living. Flint couldn't even remember half the secrets he'd confessed to the dark haired man while in his cups. The idea of Silver, a man with all that knowledge, working so closely with him, made his jaw clench painfully. He'd stayed quiet for too long, though, and Hornigold cleared his throat to regain his attention. Slowly Flint nodded, knowing it'd be too suspicious for him to refuse.

“Splendid!” Hornigold said, his voice loud with tension. “I'll be right back,” then he stood and scurried from the office with his robes trailing behind him.

Once the door to the office closed, Flint bared his teeth at the younger man, “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

Silver wasn't intimidated by his face or tone, however, and simply smirked back lazily at him, “Weren't you paying attention? I'm here to interview for the Potions Master position.”

“The hell you are,” Flint hissed, then stormed forward to crowd into Silver's personal space. “You're just a bar tender, what could you possibly know about potions?”

Even with Flint's hands braced on either side of him, and his snarling face just a few inches from his own, the smirk on Silver's face never faded, never faltered. He quirked a brow, “Just a bar tender,” he chuckled, “good to know you think so highly of me, professor. For the sake of the interview, though,” his eyes sparked with mischief. He was goading him, Flint just knew it. “All those drink you love to throw down your gullet? Home brewed.” He shrugged. “Potions was my second best subject back when I was a student.”

“And the first?” Flint could help but ask. Being this close to Silver was distracting. He knew the man's eyes were blue, but he'd never seen them this close before, never in the light of day with a sober mind. They were so clear, like sapphires or the ocean on a cloudless day—they looked as deep as any ocean, and Flint thought he wouldn't mind getting lost in their depths.

“Charms,” Silver answered, his voice soft and his warm breath hitting Flint's lips as he leaned up, slowly closing the gap between them.

The spell over the red haired man shattered like glass and Flint scoffed before turning his head away. What a line, he thought. Silver was charming, that was very true, and sometimes—most times, depending on how many drinks he'd had—he wanted to give into that charm. To fall under the spell that was John Silver. Silver hummed, and it almost sounded like he was disappointed. Flint's brows furrowed with anger and confusion. Why should Silver be disappointed? Flint had made passes—many, many embarrassing passes—at him before and he'd turned every one of them down. Pursing his lips, he realized that Silver didn't want to seduce him, he wanted to taunt him. Eyes flashing back to Silver's, he could see that mischievous glint was still there, lurking beneath. He'd been weak, every time he visited the bar, and now Silver had come to use that weakness against him.

Growling, he pushed himself away from Silver. He forced the anger down his throat but knew his face had turned a blotchy red. Silver looked up at him with concerned eyes, and Flint forced himself to speak slowly, calmly, “Speaking from experience, I can assure you the only thing enticing about your drinks is their cheap price.” The dark haired man quirked a brow, but didn't flinch at the words. “You certainly are no Potions Master.”

“Your Headmaster seems to think differently,” Silver retorted confidently, shifting in his seat to sit straighter.

“Then he made a mistake,” Flint said quickly. Everything he'd just said was a lie, but Flint needed Silver gone. He couldn't handle any more of this. Silver was part of a different world; one that Flint frequented and indulged in, enjoyed. But the two worlds could never collide. His psyche couldn't handle it. He'd say anything to get Silver to leave—anything to set his two worlds back into their proper places.

“Why does this bother you so much?” Silver asked, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Why is my being here such an issue?”

Flint snapped, words flowing from his mouth unthinkingly, “Because I don't want to see your face any more than I have to!” Silver's eyes widened in shock, his jaw dropping slightly. Flint knew the words were a mistake, and he wished he could take them back. Pull them out of the air and shove them back into his mouth, but he couldn't. They were out and the damage was done. The door to the office opened and Hornigold strode in, oblivious to the scene he just interrupted. Not being able to look at Silver any longer, feeling sick with regret, Flint turned on his heel and stormed out of the Headmaster's office.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk how I feel about this chapter. Or maybe this whole story. Sometimes I like it and then something I worry I've mucked it up tremendously. There are parts I definitely like, but I think a lot is still unclear? Idk, but let me know what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! I've got one or two more chapters planned out for this fic.


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